All Will Know
by rentAgleek
Summary: Begins at the end of all that's known. Melchior takes a brave, life changing decision and makes some heart wrenching discoveries about his friends, dead and alive. Story is wayy better than summary! Rated T for later...
1. Chapter 1

_**PLEASE REVIEW AT THE END! enjoy this fic. NB: those of you who read my other fics and are wondering why it took sooo long to update - I've written loads of chapters on my phone, intending to email them to myself from the phone and then upload from my computer but my wifi has broken. There should be chapters shortly after christmas for those ones - I'm soooo sorry! but read and review this in the meantime :)**_**  
><strong>

**- Prologue -**

Melchior slowly turned around and looked at the graves again. He knelt down, ripping some daisies from the ground around him and placing them on their stones. 'Daisies', he said. 'They grow wild, where they shouldn't grow. Away from the uniform and correctness of the rest of the garden, they grow; beautiful, strong and unique. Undeterred. Unknowing. Until someone tears them away.' He spoke the last part bitterly, before forcing himself to turn away from Wendla and Moritz – or what was now left of the once young, vibrant and emotive people; neglected dust. 'All will know', Melchior murmured to himself. 'All will know'.

**- Part I -**

Melchior walked up the empty streets of the small town he'd once called home, slowly wiping his tearstained face, and thought about what had just happened. Had it really happened? He had sat there, stunned, as the two most important people to him had come back. Well. They hadn't come back, exactly; they had appeared to Melchior when he least expected it and most needed it. He knew he hadn't imagined it because they had stopped him from doing the thing he really wanted to do – end his life. He couldn't quite see, yet, how it was better to live – without Moritz. Without Wendla. Without his child. 'Wendla and our child', he said in a choked whisper, as he felt another stab of pain in his chest; the same pain he had felt when he realised Wendla was dead. When he saw her disappear for the final time. But he took a deep breath and remembered what he had promised to Wendla. In her life, he said he would build a different, better world. In her death, he said he would read all her dreams to the stars; he would make sure her thoughts were known. Even though Moritz had told him, just now, that he would have other dreams, other loves, Melchior couldn't even begin to consider this. Because he loved Wendla. He did. He hadn't really thought about it before now; he knew he cared for her a great deal, and he had never been more contented than when they were together. When they were in the hayloft, and Melchior could feel Wendla's delicate breath, sweet and warm on his neck. When he could smell the heavy scent of her hair, and feel her soft, silky skin. When he could see every line of her perfect face, her perfect body. When he could put his lips on hers, and somehow she knew what to do. When he could feel her breasts, feel her thighs under him. When he could taste her; pure, vivid and delicious. That night, there was nothing else in the world but her body on his, his body on hers. Melchior hadn't really thought love was real before, but now he could see that he had simply never known love before. Even though their child was the outcome of their love, and their child was the reason for Wendla's death, he didn't regret making love to Wendla. Because that's what it was, Melchior realised; they were showing their love for each other, in the most amazing way possible. He still blamed himself for her death, though. Not because he had impregnated her, but because he hadn't tried harder to leave the reformatory. It was too little too late. If he had protested more, if he had escaped immediately, as soon as he arrived, he could have saved her. Saved her and their child.

As he left the church behind and continued up the old street, he thought in anger at how two people he loved so much could be somewhere he hated so much; a church. Sinister, cold and unforgiving, for all eternity. As he walked past his old school, he remembered being a child, blissful in his ignorance of the world he would one day grow to hold in contempt. It was here that he and Moritz had been taken on that scary first day of school; Moritz's mother constantly tidying Moritz's uniform and unruly hair, Melchior's mother crying and holding him, looking nervous. At the time, he had thought she was being silly, telling her 'don't be sad, Mama, everything will be fine'. Now, he realised that she, like him, loathed the Bourgeois society. But not enough. Melchior frowned as he looked at the new cluster of tulips in front of the school, clearly hastily planted. Leaning closer, he saw a small plaque, which read 'In Memory of Moritz Stiefel. Our Finest Student. Died a Noble Death.' He frowned. The teachers at school hated Moritz; they were always looking for ways to humiliate and belittle him. Then he remembered that Moritz had passed the middle term examinations with flying colours – so how could he suddenly have failed so miserably in the finals? The pieces flew together in seconds, and Melchior realised, in horror, that the teachers had failed Moritz on purpose, so that they wouldn't have to teach him, and to damage his future prospects. This would mean that the faculty was to blame for his suicide – yes, tragic suicide, not 'Noble Death' – and not Melchior himself, as he had been led to believe. Every time he thought the world couldn't possibly get any worse, it somehow managed to create new evil. Melchior was suddenly so angry with Herr Knochenbruch that he threw a stone at his window. And again. And again. He kept throwing the rocks, not caring. Stone after stone, he tried to satisfy the anger, to curb it, but all too soon he was out of glass. It made him feel better, but not enough. Not enough to get rid of the truth. The twisted, evil faculty had effectively killed Moritz, and then pushed all the blame onto Melchior. Overcome with fury, he climbed into the headmaster's study, cutting himself on the glass in the process. The pain didn't bother him; and he numbly let the blood fall out of his wounds as he took an ink pen from the desk, and scrawled on some paper: I KNOW WHAT YOU DID. Melchior was about to leave, but thought he needed more evidence. So he opened all the drawers, the cupboards, the files, until finally he found what he was looking for; the results of the final exams. He threw it onto the table and put a huge X next to Moritz Stiefel: Passed. Then he climbed back out, and continued on his way, not entirely sure where he was going. Melchior walked towards the bridge, the long way. He knew after a while he would be at his house, but he wasn't in any rush, and knew it was probably about two o'clock in the morning, so it didn't matter if he left it a little longer. As he crossed the bridge, to the stream, he found his private place.

He ran over to his old thinking place, happy, that in the midst of the pain, the loss, he could grasp onto some tiny piece of familiarity. He gazed up at the stars. 'Wake me in time to be out in the cold' he whispered to them. Melchior lay back, and felt the strange, wonderful peace settle over him, and just let himself dream…

Melchior found himself in the classroom at school, confronting the teacher: 'are you then suggesting there is no further room for critical thought or interpretation?' He felt the flash of pain as Herr Sonnenstitch beat him, and that awful feeling which he always felt after a beating. He couldn't describe it, but it made him feel hurt, the pain going deeper than the skin and running through his bones, into his heart. Then Moritz was frantically whispering, 'legs, in sky blue stockings, climbing over the lecture podium' and he found himself writing that essay, drawing beautiful, intricately detailed illustrations…suddenly Melchior found himself writing in his journal – 'are they deaf, to everything their loins are telling them, until we grant them a marriage certificate?' – and then he was at home, talking to Moritz; 'I see, and hear, and feel, quite clearly, and yet everything seems so strange', and he remembered Moritz's face when he said that, pain and shame lingering in his friend's eyes, as Melchior said in wonder 'finally, you surrender, and feel heaven break over you' and then he had shown Moritz how to go there, how to drift silently through the seas of his mind, until he reached shore, the winds sighing beautifully.

Then he was in the meadow, with Wendla, and flashes of conversation drifted through his subconscious – 'it seems to me, what serves each of us best is what serves all of us best', and he reached slowly for her hand. It felt too unreal, until her delicate fingers grasped Melchior's strong hand. Then Wendla disappeared, and Melchior was left holding nothing, nothing…'my entire life, I've never felt…anything', 'you bitch, I'll beat the hell out of you!' and he lunged towards her, all hesitation gone, as he bought his arm down again and again, hearing her screams, and felt the sensation that had begun in him…he kept beating her as this new, wonderful feeling increased – until he realised he was hurting her. This wasn't something he should be doing. She was hurt. Hadn't he felt something similar when he was beaten? For the first time in his life, Melchior felt ashamed. He felt regret. Tears fell down his cheeks, and he ran off into the woods, disgusted at himself. That feeling of regret, of hatred at himself was indescribable…he had to get out of the woods. He stumbled through the streets, unable to see through his tears, and finally found himself at his hayloft. Melchior opened the door and threw himself into a little heap in the middle. He wept for the first time in his life. This was true pain. He had never cried like this before, and now he realised you had to have your heart open to cry. His heart was always a fist. But not anymore. The tears kept flowing, for how long, he had no idea. He was truly distraught, and every time he tried to shake the thought of what he'd done to Wendla, her screams echoed through the walls of his mind. He could hide from anyone, but he could never escape the ghost in his mind. The naked, blue angel knew everything. Melchior began hounding his body with his hands, feeling his face, the slight roughness around his chin, and down his neck. He unbuttoned his shirt slightly. The smooth, childish roundness had gone, and he felt the firm planes of his chest, and the muscles developing. He clawed angrily at himself, ripping the new hairs out, and collapsed onto his knees as he felt the hell of being broken inside, of being a man and a child. He closed his eyes, a chill running up his spine as the screams filled his head again. Desperately, he put a shaking hand into his trousers, and tried to get the blue out of his mind. Melchior's hand moved around in the usual way, but his fingers seemed blind; he couldn't remove this feeling of guilt. The ghost chased him, unrelentingly, until Melchior had to give up, his bones turning cold as he cried out in pain. Melchior withdrew his useless hand and simply held his body together, shaking. Sweat and tears and fear were on his skin, all over his body. He could smell it on himself. There was nowhere to hide anymore, nowhere to go. 'There's no-one who knows!' he wept bitterly. Who would understand, who would listen? Melchior felt more alone than ever as he realised that no-one could ever see to his soul.

'Melchior?' A sweet, soft voice echoed through the hayloft. Wendla walked in and the same feeling from earlier started in him again, and he just had to listen to what his body was wanting. 'I hear your heart', he whispered, and a wonderful feeling of belief flooded through him, and the ghost disappeared. But she pulled away, hesitating. 'Why?' he had asked. 'Because it's good? Because it makes us feel something?' and Wendla consented. As their lips touched he remembered that hunger, that need for Wendla, for every inch of her…and this time she wanted it too. He wanted to show her his heaven. Wendla let out a gasp; the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard…and then Melchior felt contented, complete, and connected when he was with her, even in dreaming.

The visions continued: Melchior was in the graveyard, with the other school children. Moritz was dead. It didn't seem real until Melchior arrived and saw the grave. Herr Stiefel stood, looking at the place which would hold his only son for all eternity. He showed no emotion until the very end, after all the children had placed their flowers. Then Melchior saw a man cry, for the first time in his life. His mouth opened, and the most awful sound came out. It was low, uncontrolled, unthinking. He could hear every tiny piece of Herr Stiefel's anguish as the sound flew right through Melchior's heart. It wasn't fair. Why. Just…why. Melchior trembled as great waves of sadness swept through him. Oh, Moritz…in a flash, Melchior was in the headmaster's office; 'if you could show me only one obscenity!', then the chilling 'Melchior Gabor…did you…write this?' and he remembered the strange mixture of loss, desire and despair, which, quite frankly, left him totally fucked.

The chaos vanished and Melchior was sitting in a tree, scribbling a letter to Wendla; 'in the end, we have only each other. We must build a different world'. He rolled over in his sleep – these dreams would never, ever materialise. Then he was in the reformatory – a dark, hellish, miserable place, where dreams went to die – and he was discreetly reading a letter from her, 'something has happened, Melchior. Something I can barely understand myself', and before long he was being held down by degenerates, struggling for his life as they taunted him; 'he was too busy fucking his slut!'. He had thrown himself at that disgusting boy, Rupert. No-one would ever call his Wendla a slut. His beautiful, sweet, gentle Wendla…he missed her so much, in the past and present, and flung his fists at them – until the moment that changed everything for him: 'in my bed each night, I have so many dreams of the better world we will build together, with our child'. He remembered the feeling manifesting itself within him; he hadn't known what it was – he still didn't – but he knew he had to leave the reformatory, and find Wendla. Then he could take her far away, and they could build that world…all too soon, he was in the graveyard again, and had to relive that moment of intense pain – Wendla was dead. Wendla was dead. Dead. It hit him like a bullet, but didn't kill him; it sat there, lodged in his heart, causing more pain than death. He wanted to be dead, he wanted to die – what was the point of living? No Moritz, no Wendla. Perhaps, if he was dead, this pain would stop, and he could be with Wendla…they would love, and all would be forgiven…in heaven? Maybe. Melchior knew there was no god, but he quite liked the idea of heaven. A place where everyone could live, really live, as opposed to this miserable excuse of a life. They could live, peacefully and happily forever, with their loved ones. Without any parents or teachers to destroy everything.

What was heaven? When Moritz passed the middle term exams, he had said, in all sincerity, 'truly, heaven must feel like this', and Melchior had privately disagreed – an examination? Passing the ridiculous tests of the faculty was not heaven, not as Melchior knew it. When he was in the hayloft with Wendla, that was heaven. When he went to the place, in his mind, and forgot everything else – the memories, the whispers, the shadows and the weeping – and listened to the word of his body; creating and fulfilling his fantasies, just doing what his wantings and his longings wanted…that was heaven.

_ **Did you like it? REVIEW!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Sorry for such a long wait...here is a long chapter and the next part will be uploaded today too :)**_

**- Part II - **

**- 1891 -**

Melchior opened his eyes, confused. He had felt peaceful, for the first time in weeks. Why did it stop? Why did he have to wake up and feel the pain again? Maybe, subconsciously, he felt guilty. Because Wendla was enduring death, and he was still alive. What would she do, if the roles were reversed? Wendla would be grief stricken, and would probably cry much more than Melchior was – simply because women tended to do that, he supposed. Wendla would probably have the courage to stand up to her mother about things…maybe she would leave home, if things became unbearable for her. She would think about Melchior every minute of every day, and would most likely never love another man again. But Moritz had told him that he, Melchior, would love again. Even though he couldn't see that happening imminently, Melchior realised he simply had to love again. He would always love Wendla too. But he knew the woman he would come to love would have to be strong, confident. Not afraid of risks, and opposed to society just as he was. Above all, she would have to be different. Different to all the immature, girly, society-loving clones who skipped through the streets – she would be no Anna or Thea, Melchior thought. But also, she would have to be different to Wendla. He knew that he would always compare any woman he met to Wendla, so the different, the better. Melchior didn't believe in only having one relationship in a lifetime. He believed in love, not pretence, as was the case with seemingly every adult couple he had come across. For a moment, he imagined that he was allowed to have half an hour with Wendla. That she appeared to him, now, and said he could see her again, for the last time, just for thirty minutes. Melchior knew what he would do straight away. He would hold her, and tell her he loved her, that he would always love her. Then he would stroke her hair, kiss her fervently, and they would breathe, and move together in paradise, for one last time. Then, when their time was almost over, he would simply hold her, kissing her neck, as they wept together. Then she would be snatched away from him, again. And even though it would hurt unbearably when it was over, Melchior knew it would be more than worth it if he could just see her again, hold her again, kiss her again, love her again. That was the reason for dreaming.

Melchior leaned forwards to drink from the stream, and to wash some of the blood away. As he did so he thought about what to do next. He knew he wouldn't – couldn't – ever live at home again. He would be forced to go back to the reformatory straight away, and then would never be allowed to see any of his old friends. His disappearance might make some people curious at first, but no doubt his parents would come up with a creative excuse, and everyone would just brush it under the rug. Like they do with anything bad, or uncomfortable, or the tiniest bit real, he thought cynically. Everyone was told Wendla had died of anaemia, and probably believed it. Even though it seemed strange, because Wendla had always been so bright and healthy, they wouldn't ask questions. If there was any chance of the truth, nobody would take it. Melchior threw a rock at the water in anger. The moment anything gets too real, they just pretend to believe the lies, they brush it under the rug and never speak of it, his thoughts screamed silently. He knew he had to go back to his house again, now, whilst everyone was sleeping, and collect a few things. Then he would leave his false, miserable life behind, and begin a new one. This life would have meaning; it would be a true life. Ilse had managed, and so would he. As he stood up, he felt something under his fingertips. Frowning, he pulled it out from where it was tucked under some flowers, and held it to the beam of moonlight. Melchior gasped. It was a piece of paper, folded over, with…his name written upon it. But that wasn't why he was shaking, why he was shocked. It was written, unmistakably, in Wendla's hand.

When had she written this? Why was it here? Melchior unfolded it, and began reading eagerly.

_My dear Melchior,_

_Mama will not let me leave the house. She says I am a disgrace, and I have bought shame on the family. She says…she says I can never see you again, Melchi. But I simply must see you again! I am going to sneak out, after dark, and hide this note in your private place. I think I will sit there for a while – it holds so many wonderful memories of our times together, and I am sure you will find it. I hope you are sent home soon, Melchior, because I have to see you; I want us to be together again._

_I saw Ilse, last week. She climbed through my window in the middle of the night to deliver your letter to me. I told her that I am going to have a child – our child. You know, Melchi, she is the first person who hasn't reacted in horror, or regarded me with disdain. It felt nice. I think she understands what happened…she told me all sorts of stories. She was the last person to see your friend, Moritz Stiefel, before he died. But you probably know that. Oh Melchi; there are women that Ilse knows…they tried to kill their child whilst it was still inside them. How could one possibly do such a thing? She told me about them. There was one woman who is dead, because she drank arsenic to try and kill her baby. But it killed her too. I can't even imagine how I would go about doing such a thing._

_Ilse seems…odd. She has changed from how she was before she_

_was thrown out of her home. Melchi, sometimes, I think Papa wants to throw me out too. He says I will burn in hell for my sins, he says God will never love or forgive me. But how could God be angry with me for something so sweet and wonderful? When we were together, Melchi, and you touched me, I have never felt more content. Surely that is not a sin? I thought God wanted everyone to be happy…and now, something beautiful has come of it: a child. How can God hate me for this? I know you don't believe in God. Sometimes I'm not sure if I do. But we will talk about this, and you can teach me what is right and wrong._

_Tomorrow, Mama says we are going to go to another doctor. I don't know why. She keeps slipping out of the house, and having whispered conversations with some stranger in our kitchen. It is all so strange. Melchior, I did not know that being with you, holding you, in that way, could make a baby. I asked Mama and she told me a ridiculous lie – too ridiculous to say. I had no idea what we were doing or what would come of it. But I enjoyed it so much – it's amazing, that a man can go inside a woman. I think about it whenever I can; it felt beautiful. And I do not blame you for anything. You touched me, and I let you love me. You were always doing the right thing. Don't you think it's amazing, Melchi? I don't know how a baby could be made by doing that…but I think it is remarkable. When I found out, and I thought about it…I felt so happy. Everything seemed beautiful and complete._

_I am going to ignore the whispers of our society, and love this beautiful new life whispering inside of me. I know that you don't believe in love, not really. I'm not sure, but I want to just write it down, even if I can't say it. I think…Melchior, I love you. I remember the love I felt, that night, in your hayloft. You showed me…I think I should call it an awakening, maybe. It's as if I was born with my heart and my body half asleep, and after fifteen years you woke them up, and they began an amazing day in that paradise…I don't know. But I do know that I love everything about you; to me, Melchi, you are perfect. You are so faithful, so adoring. I never want to be without you, ever. I will always love you. So let that be my story._

_Your Wendla._

Melchior finished the letter, tears in his eyes as he read the last part. Then he thought for a moment. He had no doubt in his mind that the 'other doctor' was responsible for Wendla's death. He felt a surge of anger towards this mystery man. Then he knew he had to find Ilse. Wendla had obviously been concerned about her, and anything that mattered to Wendla mattered to him. Melchior stood up, and tucked the note into his pocket. Then he carried on walking. Seeing his family's hayloft on the hill, he decided to walk up to it and saw, in dismay, that the doorway had been bolted over. Though he knew he should have been expecting this, it still annoyed him that his parents were trying to close off everything that might have made their lives slightly different from everyone else's. As Melchior went past the hayloft and began walking down to the street of houses below, he saw someone climbing down the wall of Hanschen's house. He didn't have the time or the desire to see who, but it was too small to be an adult. It could have been a young boy. But he thought it strange, because then one of the windows was pulled shut – by someone inside the house. Melchior crouched down and kept very still as the figure came closer, but thankfully went the other way. He still couldn't see who it was, but he didn't think about it as he approached his house. He realised, in annoyance, that he hadn't thought about how to get inside. Then he had a brainwave; Moritz's old house was right next door. One day, when they were quite young, they had smashed a hole through the wall of Moritz's attic, so as to make a passage between their homes. If he remembered correctly, the attic window at the Stiefel's house didn't lock, so Melchior carefully climbed onto the roof, pulled up the window, and slid inside.

He had intended to crawl straight through into his own house, but he stopped and stared at the attic. It was full of junk, which surprised him because Frau Stiefel always kept everything very tidy. Then he looked a little closer, and realised the junk was Moritz's possessions. Melchior shook his head, both surprised and shocked – Moritz had died less than a fortnight ago, but, of course, they had already hidden all trace of him. It would be like his best friend had never existed; undoubtedly what his parents wanted. It would of course be so much easier and less painful to wipe every memory away, he thought mockingly. Melchior stepped around the boxes filled with Moritz's clothes, old toys and books. He found a box with school things inside: the blazer and tie, some books, even his old slate, still with some Latin verses marked on them. Not for the first time, Melchior felt guilty. He ought to have known his best friend was so anguished he was driven to suicide; he should have talked to him, stopped him. He moved to another box. This one had a journal lying on the top. Melchior frowned. He didn't know Moritz had kept a journal – but assumed it just had school-related notes inside, or such like. But he opened it and discovered how very wrong he was.

_14th October_

_I have not slept. I have been haunted by a nightmare, a vision from hell. I was dreaming, and then I found myself in school. That is where it started – so I could tell straight away it would not be good. Oh it was awful. There were legs, two legs…I think they were female, in sky blue stockings. They began climbing over the lecture podium during Latin, and nobody could see them apart from me. It made me think I was going mad. But then I looked at the legs, properly, and found I couldn't look away. Why? I don't know. They made me feel…strange. It wasn't painful, or even bad at all, not really. But something at the back of my mind told me I shouldn't be looking, shouldn't be thinking about them. So I woke up – and found something wet and sticky in my nightgown, on my skin. A result of the devil's mind games, no doubt. It smelt funny, and I didn't want to touch it. I am going to have to tell someone about this; I am afraid to sleep again. But how do I talk it? I can't ask Father. Certainly not Mama. Maybe Melchior. He might understand. _

_15th October_

_Melchior has given me the essay, like I asked. But it has only made everything worse! I thought it would be safe to sleep tonight, now that I had some idea of what was happening – I still cannot comprehend that all boys have these dreams. Why? What is God's reason for this? Melchi doesn't believe in God. I'm not sure how I can, any more, but I couldn't possibly say this aloud as he does. It is lucky that Frau Gabor is so open minded and liberal that she lets him say these things. I am certain that the devil must have found a way to get around God and torture all the young men. Last night, the legs were walking towards me…but this time there were breasts and – and Labia Majora – it was too much! It was fascinating but I know I should not even be thinking about such things! Especially after what Melchi wrote in the essay, about the female…I can't stop thinking about it. Surely it cannot be true; how could it? I couldn't sleep after that, so I prayed fervently to God, to take the dreams and the sticky mess away. I don't know if he is real, but if he is, then maybe he will take pity on me. Surely he can see I am ashamed of myself._

_16th October_

_I went to see Melchior today. He told me that the part about the female is true! I did not believe him – what the woman would feel is beyond imagination. But Melchi, he does imagine it – he even thinks about it! All the time. And he wants to give this pleasure to a woman; he says that women yearn for these strange things too. I didn't believe him; the girls I know are always playing silly games, racing each other home, talking meaninglessly. Well. I think Ilse is different. She talks and behaves as if she knows more about this than the other girls. Although, I suppose she is living with the Bohemians, so this can only be expected. Besides, I think that most of what Ilse says isn't true. I remember how she told people that her father was being…inappropriate towards her. That couldn't possibly have been true. What in God's name would possess her father to do that? Then she was thrown out of her home, for embarrassing her family. I hate to think what Father would do to me if I embarrassed him…but the girls like Anna and Thea, they don't think about these things, but maybe…maybe Martha does? She seems quieter than the others, like she has something to hide. I have wondered what it is, but I know I oughtn't to ask. I like Martha. She isn't loud and immature like her friends, and she is…well, she is pleasant to look at. I confess, I found myself thinking about her in a different way earlier, but I stopped myself. It is – well surely it is evil to think about women in such a way? Melchi doesn't think so. I don't know who he thinks about, but he made it plain that he is always doing so. Still. Martha is special, she is different. But I cannot think about her like this, I must stop. She will never think this about me. I am just a sad, stupid sleepyhead. That is all I will ever be._

_5th November_

_I passed! I passed the middle term exams. Finally, it seems as if my life will be alright again. Melchior was so proud of me, and the others too – though Hanschen was a little sceptical. Still, I passed…oh, truly, heaven must feel like this! This is surely God's reward for conquering the ghosts in my mind. If I can only pass the finals, then my future is safe, and people will see Melchi and I as equals – not, as they do now, as a young man of distinct intellect, Herr Gabor, polluting himself with me, a neurasthenic imbecile, out of pity. I am Herr Stiefel. I am worth something._

_27th November_

_Something truly terrible has happened. Something I cannot possibly tell anyone about, it is too shameful. Yet, I have been ordered to tell Father. Just when I thought I was safe, that my future was good. And I have almost begun to understand, maybe even have some control over the dreams. And then I fail. Fail. The teachers! They destroy everything. They have destroyed me. I desperately want to talk to Melchi, but I don't know where he is. He's been distracted at school for weeks, and today I saw him walking down his street, looking distraught. I'd never seen him be anything other than calm, confident. As if nothing could bother him. I could have sworn he was crying. I tried calling out to him, but he ignored me. He knows. And now he doesn't want to be friends anymore. I suppose I don't deserve a friend like Melchi. He was always so kind, so understanding. I have no one but myself to blame. Anyway, I wrote a note to Frau Gabor – Melchior's mother. She seems quite open minded, and less judgemental than my parents. She is – well, was – the only adult I can rely on to be kind to me. Until I arrived home, and found her response lying on my bed. I opened it eagerly, and then discovered that now she has left me behind too, like all the others have. And now I don't know what to do. All I need is some money, and she won't give any to me. I am certain she was laughing when she wrote her response; saying my requests are absurd. As if writing to my parents is going to make any difference! They will still hold me in contempt, beat me, tell me how ashamed they are that I am their son. What will Mama say? She will be so upset. And Father…he will regard me with contempt for the rest of my miserable life. It's not as if they ever were, but I can't call them my home anymore. Who knows what they will do? She told me my relationship with Melchior is still intact, but I doubt this is the case. He will not want to be friends with me – a failure – whilst he goes on to university and becomes successful. Oh just fuck it! There's no point in living any more. Why should I live, when everyone and everything has betrayed me? I've betrayed myself! I'll just carry on, living through day after day of utter shit, whilst nobody knows or cares. I have decided. I will. I will end my life. I'll be an angel. _

Melchior flipped the page over but that was the last entry. He stood in the gloomy room, stunned. He knew Moritz had had some difficulties, but not to that extent. As he re-read the angry, tear stained pages, Melchior was angry that Moritz couldn't think of anyone to turn to. Parents should talk to their children about these things, he thought. The fact that Moritz felt he shouldn't think about it, that he couldn't talk about it, was yet more proof of how repressed and damaging the society was. Melchior was also shocked to read what his old friend had written about Martha Bessel. It was evident that Moritz felt something for Martha, similar to what Melchior felt for Wendla – but not the same, not as strong, because the poor boy couldn't bear to think about it long enough. Why hadn't Moritz told him about any of this? Although, Melchior realised, he himself had never told his friend anything about his feelings for Wendla. Still. If Moritz had told him, he could have helped him figure out his confused thoughts and feelings. He could have helped him find reason to live. And Melchior knew exactly what Martha was hiding. He shuddered, remembering that afternoon…but stopped himself and focused on the journal again. At first he had been happy to read the 5th November entry; but was saddened that Moritz thought their friendship was built out of pity, that he felt was deeply inferior to his best friend. 'No Moritz' he whispered, shaking his head. 'It was never like that. You have always been worthy; exams and intellect reflect nothing about a person. Surely you knew that!' Melchior felt awful. How had he never known about any of this? He loved Moritz. Not the way he loved Wendla, but he did love him. He realised, reading over the most recent entries again, that their friendship was the sole reason Moritz found life worth living; his sole purpose. Until the day of his false failure – the day he had decided to end his life, and Melchior hadn't been there for his best friend. Although at the time he had felt awful because of what he did to Wendla, he knew he could have been there for Moritz. How could he have laughed at Moritz's wounds, when he himself was wounding Moritz, and wounding Wendla? Now, Melchior was wounded too. As for the letter to his mother? He had no idea. Why hadn't his mother said something? The truth about the essay and the child hadn't come about for several weeks after Moritz's death; she had had no reason to be angry with Melchior, no reason to keep something like this from him. Even his own mother had been infected with the society. She was just like everyone else – if it was uncomfortable, no: if it made you feel something, it was not talked about.

Melchior took the journal with him, and then went over to the corner, where he knew there was a large hole in the wall, concealed by a painting. Quietly, slowly moving the huge object, he climbed through into his own attic – but he noticed something attached to the back of the canvas. It was a sheet of thick paper, frayed at the edges a little. Turning it over, he saw two figures, drawn with a black lead stick. They were boys, young boys, with no clothes and no faces. But Moritz had written 'Me and Melchi' underneath them. Melchior found a lump rising in his throat. It must have been drawn years ago; the figures were uneven, the letters misshapen. But it was still, unquestionably, a sign of true friendship. He tucked it inside the journal and turned around into the Gabor attic, completely unprepared for the sight which met his eyes. All of his belongings had been dumped on the floor. There was no organisation, no labelled boxes like in the Stiefel attic. Here, his possessions had been quickly, haphazardly hidden. Melchior frowned. It wasn't as if he was dead. Climbing carefully down the steps, he wandered into his old bedroom, and gasped. The room was stripped bare. There was his bed, but with no blankets. His bookcase, but with no books. It was as if nobody had ever lived here. Then, he realised. His parents didn't want him to come home. They wanted to pretend he didn't exist. Melchior hadn't planned on coming home, but what if he had been. What if he turned up on the doorstep tomorrow morning, greeting his parents as if nothing had changed. What if he walked up the stairs, into this wretched room, and demanded an explanation. What would they do? What would they say? He opened the drawer of his desk and scrabbled about, for any sort of writing tool. Finally, he found a pencil. Grinning, Melchior walked up to the bare wall, stripped of the old drawings and favourite quotes it was once covered with, and began to write, boldly and deliberately. Let them cover up this, he thought.

**Herr and Frau Gabor**

**I refuse to acknowledge you as my parents for several reasons – namely, after the discovery I have made in your attic, and this is just to let you know several things. Firstly, I, Melchior Gabor, am now parentless. Secondly, I shall never return to this shallow, degrading excuse of a home. Thirdly, I loathe you for everything you did. For example, sending me away to a reformatory. I am not a criminal. I am your child. Parents do not send their child to a place like that. Ever. You are partially to blame for the death of Wendla Bergman, the most amazing woman I have met in all my life. We loved each other. And just because we did not love each other in this controlled, Lutheran, Bourgeois manner which you two do, it does not mean it was not real. It was more real than anything you people can ever imagine. Finally, FUCK YOU.**

Melchior signed his name and went back up to the attic. He grabbed his old satchel and filled it with the things he wanted to take with him, wherever he was going. Moritz's journal with the picture inside. Wendla's letter. His copy of Faust, several Greek tragedies, Othello, and his book about the history of Germany. He also put his own journal, and some clothes from the messy heap into the satchel. Finally he stole down the stairs, and into the kitchen. He didn't care if they noticed that food was missing; in fact, he hoped they would. After the rest of the satchel had been filled with breads and fruits, Melchior realised he needed money. So, he took all the Marks from the pockets of his father's jacket, and all the jewellery from the box his mother kept in the dining room. He knew he could sell this for a high price. Then, Melchior stepped out of the house, leaving the door wide open. What did it matter if there were thieves about? They deserved it, he thought. He stood back, and looked at the place he had called home for so long. Every house has a smell. If it's your house, your home, you can't smell it. When Melchior was inside there, he had smelt someone else's house.

The young man turned his back on the strangers' house and walked on, not looking back.

_**Next time: Melchior runs into Hanschen...**_


	3. Chapter 3

**- Part II -**

**-1892-**

Melchior walked up the hill, towards the old vineyard. It was summer, and the evening sky was a beautiful shade of purple. He sat down in the long grass, opening his journal. It was strange, but in the year since he had left his old life behind, Melchior found he had nothing to write. He flipped back through his old entries. The letters stood angrily on the pages, conveying perfectly the tone of Melchior's old resentment. Perhaps the reason why he couldn't write was because he needed no release anymore. He wasn't surrounded by teachers or parents; he didn't have to be someone he wasn't. That existence was nothing but a vague memory to him now – with the exception of Moritz and Wendla, who shone brightly, like vibrant colours on a dull grey canvas. Melchior now spent his days reading, and his evenings were devoted to long, peaceful walks, where no-one would find him. Taking his shirt off, he lay back and closed his eyes, listening to the murmurs of the crickets and appreciating the way the night breeze gently caressed his chest.

'These days' crooned a nearby voice. Melchior sat up quickly and tried to see who was speaking. 'So wide. So warm'. It sounded like…was that Hanschen? Melchior stood up and cautiously walked to where the voice was coming from. He could see the back of Hanschen's head, his gold hair shining in the light of the setting sun. He reached over to a smaller person next to him, and ran his hand down their back. Melchior smiled excitedly; he had no idea that Hanschen was interested in any girls in town. 'Yes', said the other person, a little breathlessly. Melchior frowned. It didn't sound like any of the girls he knew. 'The sun is…beautiful. Although', she paused. Melchior recognised the voice from somewhere. 'Not as beautiful as you', she whispered. Hanschen laughed. 'Oh, Ernst.' Melchior's mouth dropped open. He craned his neck forwards, and, indeed, that smaller figure was Ernst. As the two boys kissed deeply, Melchior stood, staring. Hanschen was kissing Ernst…he had read of homosexuality before, and had always been fascinated, rather than disgusted, as was the case with everyone else. He didn't think it was immoral. If he had feelings for a boy, like the feelings he had for Wendla, Melchior wouldn't be ashamed. It would be a surprise – as was the scene unfolding before his eyes – but not a bad thing. It wasn't wrong, it was just uncommon. He smiled, as he watched his old friends kiss, and realised they were no different to any other couple. Melchior knew that two men didn't physically have sex in the same way that a man and a woman did, but he had no doubt that the feelings, the thoughts, and the love were the same, regardless of gender. He had often imagined, sometimes simulating, the way he might make love to both a woman and a man, and how they would feel. In the past, he had thought more about women, but now he sat down and imagined how he would make a man feel. How a man would make him feel. Melchior was certain that if Hanschen were kissing him, it would feel very different to kissing Wendla. Girls were soft, feminine, and gentler during intimacy. It was usually, as Melchior understood it, the man who led. But if he and Hanschen had been in that hayloft, there would be nothing to hold them back, both leading each other…he imagined running a hand down Hanschen's firm, toned chest, whilst Hanschen's lips found his, and they kissed. What would it feel like, he mused, to hold him…moving his hand up and down, increasing speed and pressure until Hanschen achieved orgasm…and then for Hanschen to do the same to Melchior…'Hanschen!', he gasped, opening his eyes and realising he was erect. Melchior slowly lay back, using his hand to finish and remove the mess from his stomach. He sucked his fingers thoughtfully. Did this mean he was homosexual? But he had loved Wendla. He knew this for certain, because when he did allow himself to remember that night with her, he wanted to have sex with her again. And even before he began to look at her in that way, Melchior had constantly thought about women and sex. He had masturbated over erotic postcards and novels plenty of times in his youth, always about women. So he couldn't be homosexual. Yet, he had undoubtedly felt a strong desire about Hanschen just now. Although, who could blame him. Hanschen Rilow was quite different to any man he'd ever met. He was intelligent, confident, and generally quite relaxed – Melchior saw a lot of himself in Hanschen. However, he also had a superior, flirtatious side, which Melchior had always admired, but now he was excited by it. He knew he had to see Hanschen, alone, as soon as possible, to determine this. Slowly, he stood up and glanced at them again. This time, he felt a stab of jealousy. If only those were his hands in Hanschen's hair, Hanschen's hands stroking his neck, grazing his thigh…if only their lips could touch. He sighed with longing.

Melchior waited until the two boys parted. As he did so, he realised it all made sense – the two boys always left school together, did homework together…Melchior remembered something about that awful night, a month ago, when he had seen someone leave Hanschen's window – it was Ernst! He shook his head in disbelief. If Ernst was sneaking into Hanschen's house…maybe Hanschen was too committed to Ernst to even consider Melchior. Also, he suddenly remembered that he himself hadn't been seen by anyone for a month, and was probably regarded with disapproval by most people. This would probably discourage Hanschen, too. He was suddenly distracted from his thoughts by Ernst's soft voice; 'Do you ever think about Melchior Gabor?' Melchior looked over at them again. Ernst was sitting with Hanschen's head in his lap. Hanschen raised his eyebrows. 'Melchi? Yes. Yes I do. He was a truly remarkable man', he replied. 'Was? He's not dead' corrected Ersnt. 'You truly believe he's still alive? Your optimism is so endearing, Ernst, but he disappeared a long time ago. I wouldn't be surprised if he's dead by now. Such a pity. I had hoped to know him better one day', Hanschen said, sadness colouring his tone. Melchior was shocked. Hanschen had said he wanted to know him better – and he had referred to him as a man. Not a boy. A man. Melchior smiled. Ernst nodded. 'I suppose you are right', he smiled, as Hanschen purred 'why, of course I am', and he leaned upwards to kiss Ernst. It was a short, sweet moment. 'The sun's setting, Hanschen. Truly, I'd better go', said Ernst, getting up. Hanschen nodded. 'Yes, you go first, so as not to arouse suspicion', he said. 'I love you, Hanschen', Ersnt called out hopefully. Hanschen turned away. 'As you should', he responded. Despite his jealousy, Melchior couldn't help but feel sorry for Ernst as he was rejected, and a tear rolled down the boy's cheek as he walked back towards the town. Hanschen ran a hand through his hair, and lay back. 'Oh, Melchi', he sighed. 'You'll never know.'

Melchior was stood, frozen. I'll never know what, he wanted to ask. Could he? Could he trust Hanschen? He decided to approach him, but casually, as if he hadn't just seen and heard everything. He put his shirt back on, but decided to leave it unbuttoned. Melchior took a deep breath, licked his lips and strolled in Hanschen's general direction, singing under his breath. Hanschen immediately sat up and turned around. His composed expression collapsed in shock. 'My my', he said, in his most flirtatious tone, 'Melchi Gabor…this is a surprise'. His eyes didn't leave Melchior's exposed chest. Melchior laughed to try and shake off his nerves. 'I could say the same of you! Since when did you spend time in vineyards?' he asked, internally cringing from the stupid question. Hanschen shrugged. 'It's so peaceful here. Sometimes I just need to escape. This is my private place, for thinking.' Melchior smiled, as he remembered using those exact words. 'I have one of those, too. I've not been there in a while. Maybe you'll let me into yours?' he tried to subtly hint. Hanschen raised his eyebrows. What was Melchi suggesting? As Melchior slowly licked his lips, whilst looking straight into Hanschen's eyes, he realised that Melchior was trying to seduce him. He laughed, and said, 'Allow me.' He slowly began unbuttoning his own shirt, revealing his magnificent torso. Melchior's eyes widened. This was better than he had imagined. Tentatively, he reached towards Hanschen, who granted him permission with his eyes. Melchior's strong hands moved down his chest, and he shuddered with pleasure. This was so, so different than with Ernst. He looked into Melchior's eyes, and kissed him softly, just once. Then, with one swift movement, Melchior was on top of him, and they kissed so passionately that neither could tell which mouth was their own. Hanschen slid his tongue into Melchior's mouth, finding his and intertwining them. Melchior was so focused on the kiss that he didn't feel his shirt being pulled off until Hanschen began to lightly trace the planes of his chest, and as the pressure increased, Melchior involuntarily broke the kiss with a groan of pleasure. Hanschen turned so that he was on Melchior, and now that his mouth was available, Hanschen moved it to his chest and sucked at his nipple, causing Melchior to gasp. Not wanting to feel like Hanschen was doing everything, Melchior tried to find some way to touch him, but could barely think straight as he felt teeth sinking into him. Hanschen moved upwards, letting his tongue run over the firm skin. Once at his neck, he began sucking roughly at Melchior's pulse point, knowing it would leave a mark. As the minutes passed, both men in ecstasy, Melchior lifted Hanschen's chin up so that they could kiss again. The two marvelled at how different this was to anything they'd ever experienced. For Melchior, the joy was indescribable, despite the confusion. This wasn't better or worse than being with Wendla; it was simply very, very different. For Hanschen, this was better than kissing Ernst. He was nothing more than a child, but Melchior was a man, and he could pleasure him as an equal. Hanschen moved the kiss down Melchior's neck, onto his chest, and then reached his trousers. They were very tight, he noticed, as he easily removed them. 'Hanschen…' Melchior gasped. Hanschen looked up at him. 'Please. Please, Melchi', and he nodded. Hanschen threw the material aside, and slowly trailed a finger south. He looked into his eyes, to make it more intimate, and took Melchior into his mouth. Melchior moaned softly, the sound encouraging Hanschen. He took more of Melchior, seeing the orgasm on his face as he ran his tongue over the tip. He swallowed and sat up, savouring the delicious taste. Melchior kissed him, stronger than ever before. 'That', he said between kisses, 'was amazing.' Hanschen's heart glowed with pride at the compliment. Before he knew what was happening, they had moved so that he was lying face down, and Melchior was on his back. Hanschen realised what was about to happen, and obligingly removed his pants. Both men were now naked, together. Melchior planted a few kisses on Hanschen's neck, and then moved his hand towards Hanschen's opening. He gently slid a finger inside, enjoying the feel immensely. 'More', murmured the man beneath him, and Melchior obliged. Hanschen gasped, not expecting the pain. Still, he didn't want Melchior to stop. There had to be a way through this, to the heaven he dreamed of…Melchior added another finger, and slowly moved his hand back and forth. Melchior knew Hanschen was in pain, but it was necessary. He kissed his ear, saying, 'sorry for the pain', and Hanschen whispered, 'you're forgiven', before closing his eyes. He realised the pain was subsiding now, and he could feel Melchior inside of him; it felt good. Suddenly, he was empty again, and was confused for a moment. Melchior gazed at Hanschen. He understood the yearning that a man felt for sexual pleasure, and now he realised he wanted to give Hanschen this pleasure. He took a deep breath and penetrated Hanschen. The two men moaned with joy. Melchior could feel Hanschen against him, and realised they fit together perfectly. Hanschen noticed this too. It was real, it was right. Hanschen could feel all of Melchior, all over his body. Melchior began moving his body into Hanschen, and soon they were moving together, increasing their enjoyment. They moved faster and harder than ever, and Hanschen felt Melchior's orgasm inside him, and they both called out each other's names. They continued, until they were out of breath, spent. Melchior withdrew gently, and then looked down at Hanschen. He kissed the nape of his neck. 'Thank you', Hanschen whispered. Melchior moved to his side, so they could face each other. Just looking into Melchior's eyes was enough for Hanschen. 'Oh, Melchior', and he leaned in to kiss him. Melchior kissed back fervently. The sky darkened, and the only sounds were the delicious, wet rustles their lips made, resonating beautifully with the sighs of the winds. It was perfect.

Melchior lay in silence, staring at the first few stars. 'Can I ask you something?' he asked. 'Of course', Hanschen consented. 'Why did you kiss me straight away? What if you'd misread the signs? Weren't you worried about what I might say to people in town?' Hanschen considered for a moment. 'Well, no-one has seen you in such a long time, Melchi. If you came back now, and told people I'd kissed you, I can guarantee that you wouldn't be taken seriously. They probably wouldn't recognise you; you've changed so much. And also', he said, running a finger over Melchior's lips, 'I wanted you so very badly'. Melchior smiled. 'As I wanted you', he said, lightly running his tongue over the finger. The two men were lying in the grass, Hanschen in the crook of Melchior's neck. Melchior glanced upwards at the moon. It must be close to midnight, he thought. 'Don't you have to go back?' he said. Hanschen laughed. 'Why, do you want me to leave?' 'No, no of course not. I just thought your parents might be worried.' Hanschen shook his head. 'My parents…they haven't even noticed I've gone. My mother is on a cruise liner with her friends for the month, and my father is too busy to care about me. I feel as if I should be sad that they pay so little attention, but honestly I'm not. Quite the opposite', he winked at Melchior, and intertwined their fingers. Melchior laughed. He liked the feeling of Hanschen's hand on his. It felt warm, and safe. He asked him, 'What would they think if they knew…about what we just did?' Hanschen contemplated. 'They'd hate me,' he said simply, without much hesitation. 'It's not as if they love me now, but yes, they'd hate me. They'd send me to a reformatory, I imagine.' Melchior nodded. 'My parents did the same to me', he confessed. Hanschen looked surprised. 'It must feel awful, to have your parents give up on you. Just sending you away to be fixed, as if you're broken', he mused. Melchior was shocked at the truth in what he'd just said. 'I am broken, Hanschen. I've been broken, inside, for…I don't know how long. Sometimes I can forget about it, but I can't fix it. I think it's always going to be there.' He didn't know what had made him just say that to Hanschen, but he felt safe. Melchior looked at him, slightly embarrassed. Hanschen nodded, and gently kissed Melchior's hand. 'I understand, Melchi. When I realised I was homosexual, I was a mess. I'm still partly in denial. I honestly understand how you're feeling, and I'll help you.' He moved so that Melchior's head was on his chest. As he stroked the thick, dark curls, Melchior smiled. 'Thank you…but I'm not homosexual', he explained. Hanschen laughed. 'I know it's difficult. Trust me. I'm still ashamed sometimes. But, Melchi, you couldn't take your eyes off me', he said, joking. Melchior laughed. 'I know, I know. But I know I'm not homosexual – I am definitely attracted to you, though. But you should know a few things about me. Things I've done.' He said the last part in a whisper. Hanschen was intrigued. 'You can trust me, Melchi.'

'Do you remember when Moritz died?' Melchior asked, trying to keep his voice level. Hanschen nodded. 'Yes. It must be almost two months ago now. Ah, Moritz' he sighed sadly. Melchior heard the wistful edge to his tone. 'Were you attracted to him?' he asked Hanschen curiously. 'Well, no, not exactly,' he explained. 'His hair…it always held a certain fascination for me.' Melchior smiled, remembering the unruly, brunette mess. 'I see. I loved Moritz, but – ' Hanschen finished the sentence. 'As a friend, a brother. Anyway, you were saying?' Melchior nodded. 'So, it was just before he died. I was in the woods, and…a woman found me. She told me how her friend had been beaten, and she herself wanted to understand what this meant. She gave me a stick, and asked me to beat her. Well of course I refused. But then she told me that she'd never felt anything, her entire life, and I just couldn't hold back. So I beat her, Hanschen…I hurt her.' Melchior began to cry, and as he did, strong arms wrapped around him. Hanschen held him, and gently wiped his tears away. 'Then I ran away from her…how could I have left her! I can't describe how much I hated myself. She found me, though. At first I wanted her to leave, but she forgave me. And then she held me, against her breast, and I heard her heart. So beautiful…then we kissed. And we had sex.' Hanschen thought for a moment. 'You went inside her?' there was a hint of repulsion in his question. Melchior nodded. 'Yes. I went inside her. And it felt…amazing. See, this is how I know I'm not homosexual', he said. Hanschen stopped wiping his tears. 'How did it feel when you went inside me?' he asked quietly. Melchior answered without needing to think. 'It felt amazing, as well. It was different, but it was still, without a doubt, amazing', he told him. Hanschen kissed him briefly. 'So where is she now?' he asked. Melchior felt the pain again, and held Hanschen's hand tightly. 'When I was sent away', he continued, voice shaking, 'she wrote to me. And she told me she was going to have a child. Our child', he explained. He glanced sideways at Hanschen, who was looking more confused than ever. 'How could she be pregnant…with your child? I thought you had to be married and then a baby would arrive', he stated. 'That's what Mama told me, anyhow.' Melchior nodded grimly. 'That's what she thought, too. I knew that there was a chance, a possibility – but I didn't think it would actually happen. I didn't think. I wanted her, I needed her. Everything else left my mind', he confessed. Hanschen nodded to show he understood. Melchior carried on. 'I knew at once I had to find her. So I went back, to meet her in the graveyard behind the church. But she never came. After a while, I stumbled upon a fresh grave, with her name on. It said she'd died…of anaemia', he said, spitting the lie in disgust. 'Of course, I knew at once what had really happened.' 'What had happened?', asked Hanschen. Melchior stared at him in disbelief. 'The baby was murdered. And so was Wendla', he said, without thinking. 'Wendla…Wendla Bergman? That little girl in the blue dress? You…you had sex with her?' Melchior nodded. 'There's no need to sound so angry', he mumbled. 'Melchior, you could have been a father. You could have been responsible for someone's life, making sure it wasn't fucked up like mine or yours. Like everyone's', he said, overcome with anger. He couldn't believe Melchior had had sex with a woman. That Melchior had been in love with a woman. He had to leave. Hanschen got up, and their fingers slid apart. 'Don't leave', Melchior begged. Hanschen turned back to see Melchior's face, eyes wide and pleading, lips slightly parted. He shook his head, turned away and walked down the hill. Finally, the tears came. How could this be happening? He felt a pain in his heart, the pain he always got when he thought about Melchior.

**did you like it? PLEASE REVIEW!**


End file.
